Bound By Love
by Ashes Of The Innocent
Summary: Scorpius knew that by the end of the year, some way or the other, no matter how twisty it would be, he would get Potter once and for all. All for himself. – James/Scorpius, written for the "Dirty Santa" Challenge.


**Disclaimer: **Nothing belongs to me – luckily for you.

**Warning/s: **profanity, slash, bit of violence, a slightly deranged!Scorpius.

**AN: **This was written for the "Dirty Santa" challenge, and although originally intended to be this light, fun, smutty James/Scorpius thing, I'm afraid it went out of proportion and turned out to be this weird, little thing that hit me because it seems I have the ability to make even Christmas a morbid thing in my mind. Nevertheless, regardless of the fact that it doesn't fit the theme exactly, hope you like it.

* * *

><p>"You have <em>got <em>to be kidding me."

Scorpius hummed loudly and paid no heed to Potter's loud, complaining voice, instead just gripping the quill tightly in his hand and dragging the tip along the scratchy paper in front of him. Potter's face, barely visible past the fir tree the Room of Requirement had placed in the middle of the room, flashed and flushed a deep red colour, eyes narrowed with outrage.

"Get me down, you bloody lunatic!"

Scorpius brushed past a stray lock of hair and looked up at him, smiling vaguely. He liked seeing Potter like that, lower waist and legs clear in his vision (and with a bit of tanned skin showing where his robes rode up). There was something compromising about the position.

"Not happening any time soon, Potter," Scorpius said coolly, leaning back in his chair with a small, content sigh. "I need you there for a little more time."

Potter's forehead wrinkled in what Scorpius assumed to be frustration, and the groan let out minutes later confirmed that.

"Damn you, Malfoy!" Potter shouted. "Get me down, _now_."

Scorpius arched an eyebrow at him and got to his feet, pushing the tree further to the right so he could see Potter's body properly.

"Or else what? You're tied upside down, Potter. You can't do anything to me in that position, can you?"

James Potter's face turned redder, and Scorpius wasn't even sure whether it was because of the blood going to his face from the current state he was in or simple embarrassment. Scorpius liked to think it was both.

"Why the hell are you keeping me here?" Potter asked, his loud voice making Scorpius cringe a little. "Is this some sort of sick punishment that you Malfoys like to perform on innocent people?"

"You beat up a twelve year old boy because he didn't laugh at one of your pathetic pranks."

"I never _killed _anyone."

"Neither did I."

Potter struggled again, wailed out loud, and glared at him.

"Not yet you haven't!"

Scorpius smirked at him. "You sure are feisty, aren't you?"

Potter clenched his jaw. "You _arsehole. _Just leave me alone! Why am I here?"

Scorpius walked back to his chair, bringing it forward and laid the leather-bound book in his lap, grabbing the quill. He studied Potter again, then drew his gaze down to the paper, tracing another line.

"What are you doing?" Potter blinked; then, "Are you _drawing _me? You sick—"

"Oh, shut up," Scorpius said. "I'm just sketching."

"Sketching? What—" Potter's eyes widened in recognition. "That's the book I got for Christmas. Where do you have it from?"

"Your room."

"How – _you _gave it to me, didn't you? You played that dumb Dirty Santa game everyone kept on talking about and you got me – didn't you?"

"You finally put two and two together, did you, Potter? Yes, I got you."

"I wasn't even there anymore. I quit!"

Scorpius gave him a small, wry smile. "I might have added your name in there anyway."

"What – _why_?"

"Don't you like gifts?"

Potter pulled on the ropes tying his hands like he was trying to clap them together and just stared at Scorpius like he was insane.

"Not when I have to get them. You idiot! That means that I must have gotten someone, doesn't it?"

"Oh, you did." Scorpius searched through the pocket of his robes and took a small slip of paper, waving it in front of Potter.

"What – what does it say? Just bloody well stop waving it and let me see!"

Potter peered at it, squinting. "Who on earth is Richard Sloan?"

"He's in Hufflepuff." Scorpius crushed the slip and let it drop on the ground. "Don't worry; I sorted it out for you. I got him some poisonous plant I found in my mother's garden."

"_What_?"

"Relax. I just got him a hat. Yellow and black, like his House's colour. He'll never guess it was you."

"Why did you do that?"

Scorpius pursed his lips and turned back towards the book, ignoring Potter's further comments and questions, trying to think of his voice as nothing but music on the background rather than something to get irritated with.

Scorpius stopped his drawing and glanced up briefly.

"Lift you shirt up a bit," he said, looking over Potter's expression.

"What? No way!"

"Oh, come on."

"No way in hell, you crazy pervert! Why should I?"

Scorpius let out a frustrated sigh and tapped the pen against the book impatiently. "Do you _want _to stay there for another five hours, or do you want to get down as soon as possible?"

Potter grumbled and stared down at the ground, his lower lip jutting out in a pout.

Hmm. Quite adorable, really.

"Whatever," Potter muttered. "I can't move my hands."

"You can enough to pull your shirt up."

Potter's eyes flashed at him, as if to curse him for being right, and his fingers tugged the hem of his robes upwards, revealing a half toned abdomen, but not going further than the area of his diaphragm, and when Scorpius opened his mouth to protest, Potter said, "You said _a bit _only. Not anymore than this, do you understand?"

Scorpius wanted to see more but he resigned to it.

"So be it."

He continued drawing, occasionally glancing up at the fuming Potter, who continued to grumble and mutter under his breath, asking him for numerous times when he was going to be done, and even telling him that he was a lunatic, kind of crazy, same old, same new.

After half an hour or some, a smile broke over Scorpius's face and Potter looked more relieved than ever.

"Thank _Merlin _you're finally done. Now can you get me down from here?"

Scorpius looked him over, feeling reluctant to actually let him go. This was the first time he'd ever have an opportunity to speak with Potter and letting him down would mean never exchanging another word ever again. The boy was two years older than him, in Gryffindor, and a Potter no less, and all those led to nothing but mutual indifference or dislike towards each other.

"Very well then," Scorpius said with a sigh, waving his wand so that the bounds disappeared and Potter fell down on the ground with a loud thud.

"Owwww! You _idiot_!"

Scorpius got to his feet immediately, wondering why he was so concerned for Potter's wellbeing when he saw him on the ground, face pressed against the marble floor, and body convulsing once as he hit the ground like he'd been set on fire instantaneously.

Potter looked up at him, glaring, nose red from the impact, a lump on his forehead and blood trickling down from his broken lower lip.

"Are you all right?"

Potter waved his hands away when he tried to help and got into a sitting position, looking sour.

"Get off me, Malfoy. Look what you did to me."

Potter touched his lower lip and winced.

Scorpius held back, a mixture of heat and concern washing over his body at the state Potter's handsome face was in.

"I hate you," Potter mumbled, rubbing his forehead. "I hate you so much."

Scorpius extended his hand and Potter ignored it, getting to his feet by himself.

"Sorry. I didn't mean for you to fall down."

Potter snorted. "Helps so much."

"Do you need any help? Does it hurt?"

Scorpius stepped forward, putting his hand on his shoulder but Potter shook him away.

"No," he said angrily. "Now, if you could, would you _please _explain why I was suspended in air just a few minutes ago?"

"Are you okay?"

"Answer my question, Malfoy."

Scorpius sucked a in a breath and refrained from touching him again, making sure to avoid the bruises on his face pointedly.

"I wanted to draw you."

"Why?"

Scorpius bit his lips, fighting back a smile. "You're beautiful."

Potter frowned. "_What_?"

Scorpius didn't answer; he reached forwards again, his hand brushing lightly against Potter's red cheek. His fingertips burned at the contact.

"Don't touch me!" Potter snapped. "What is wrong with you?"

"Loaded question, Potter," Scorpius said.

"Why did you want to draw me? And why my book? You gave it to me, didn't you? It's mine."

"I thought it was appropriate."

"_How_?"

Scorpius smiled again and opened it, flicking through the pages and stopping at one of them with a scratchily drawn yellow figure, the contours of the thick lines flashing out from the white page.

"Because you drew me," Scorpius said, showing it to him.

Potter's hand fell away from his forehead finally, and he stared in confusion at the paper.

"That's not you," he said eventually, brow furrowed.

"Then who is it?"

"I don't know. I was bored. The markers from you were there and the book was there and I drew that."

"You drew it unintentionally? That makes it a whole lot better, Potter."

"That's not _you_."

"Believe what you want, Potter," Scorpius said, closing the book and drawing it back under his armpit. "Have you still got the colours? I'd like to colour your hair."

"_No_. And give me back my book."

"Thought you didn't like it."

"I don't. But what's mine is mine."

"Ah. And people said Gryffindors were unselfish and brave."

"Give it back."

Scorpius handed it to him, tilting his head sideways. "You know, I like you."

Potter, still flushed in the face and blood now staining his chin, rolled his eyes. "I figured."

Scorpius moistened his lips, and stepped until he was standing close to him, so close he felt his warm breath on the side of his mouth.

Potter tensed, watching him warily. "What are you doing?"

Scorpius lifted his hand hesitantly to his shoulder, sliding it slowly over his clavicle and breastbone, and stopping it where he could feel his heartbeat behind his chest. It was faint, but it was there and sounded better than anything Scorpius had ever heard.

"You're beautiful," he murmured again, raising his gaze to meet Potter's. Potter seemed frozen to the spot, lips parted slightly in surprise. "I love you, you know."

Potter swallowed hard, still not moving away. "Leave me alone, Malfoy. You – you don't mean that."

Scorpius thought of the nights spent in the sanctuary of his four poster bed, sweaty nights spent daydreaming or dreaming of Potter kissing him, touching him, holding him, and smiled. Those nights were always bittersweet, because it was amazing to think of Potter actually loving him, but his resolve always weakened afterwards.

"I do," Scorpius said honestly, and leaned forwards to press his lips against Potter's. It was just a small peck, a brush against Potter's mouth, but it was better than anything else Scorpius had ever felt and it was with great regret that he pulled back.

Potter's eyes were screwed up tight, his breath short and rapid.

"You do _not _love me, Malfoy. You don't."

Scorpius hesitated, then grazed his thumb across the redness on Potter's cheek.

"I do."

"You're a _Malfoy_, dammit," Potter said fiercely, seeming to snap back to his old self. He stepped back, scowling and still panting a bit. "Malfoys don't love. They don't know how to love. I'm a _Potter. _Our fathers hated each other. You don't know how to love."

"If I didn't love you, do you think I would get you something for Christmas? Do you think I would even be speaking to you right now? Do you?"

"You're lusting," Potter said curtly. "You're lusting or something like that. You're a teenager. It's normal to lust."

"This isn't lust." Scorpius glanced at the blood on his lip, felt the heat pass through his body and shook his head because it _wasn't _lust. "It's love. I know it is."

"It's not love," Potter gritted out. "All right? It's lust. You're a teenager and it's normal to feel like that, and only because you're a faggot, _that's _why you think it's love. Faggots don't know how to love, you simply don't, and so you're labelling this lust as love which it is not. You're obsessed, that's all. A freak. Big surprise there."

Scorpius knew he ought to feel offended; knew he should take out his wand and hex Potter until the boy was on the ground suffering, but nothing about his harsh words actually hurt Scorpius. They were more like small, subtle compliments; they left him feeling elated, excited, and the sensations through his body – though not something he hadn't felt before – were amplified by them, making this love or lust or whatever it was a hundred times better.

Merlin, if Potter continued that way Scorpius would be hard in no time.

"You're adorable when you're angry," he said and smirked at the look of exasperation on Potter's face. "It doesn't matter much what you think of me, because it's love and I know it is. You know it too. You drew me after all. You're in denial. You know you love me, but you hate it and so you're lashing out."

Potter drew back sharply when Scorpius cupped the back of his neck with a little squeeze.

"It's all right, really, to feel that way. I felt like that too. Until I saw you playing Quidditch and it all came into perspective."

Potter clenched his hands and shook his head vigorously, and Scorpius found the expression on his face, together with the nasty bruise on his forehead and the blood on his chin rather arousing. So much it took him a while to catch his breath, and by that time Potter's hands were trembling, gripping onto the book tightly.

"_Fuck _you, Malfoy."

Scorpius sighed. So Potter was still in denial land. Shame.

"I'm leaving," Potter sneered, eyes flashing. "Okay? I'm leaving right now, leaving in your crazy land, and once you're normal, call me to throw a party. You're insane, Malfoy. Insane. Get some damn help and leave me alone, you filthy faggot."

"Merry Christmas," was all that Scorpius said.

"Go to _hell_, fag."

And with those last words, Potter made a rude gesture with his hand and walked backwards towards the door, gaze fixed on Scorpius's at all times, and once he was outside, the door slamming echoed loudly in the suddenly too empty room.

Scorpius stood still for a few long minutes, processing what had happened, and then took out his wand and gathered all of his belongings with his wand. The only true regret that stayed with him by the time he was in bed was that he didn't save that image of Potter for himself.

No matter. He had his imagination to make up for it, and when his sweaty hand was resting against the crotch of his pyjama pants, finally still, breath heavy in the thick air, he bit his lips together to fight back against the tears threatening to come, and he wasn't entirely sure whether it was because of him coming right now or the fact that he'd talked to Potter or even that the boy had rejected him so painfully. Maybe it was a little bit of all of them.

The pain felt nice, really, and Scorpius wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and let a smile break over his face, his breathing evening out. It hurt, having to hear Potter say all those words, but it was a good kind of hurt that only added to the height of his climax.

He didn't really sleep much that night.

XXX

Scorpius still wanted Potter, wanted him so badly it was like an addiction burrowing skin deep, and he knew that the only way to satisfy this craving would be to talk to him again. Not necessarily touch – just talk, just see that he was addressing Scorpius and no one else.

For the next day, all Scorpius could think of was ways of getting Potter again in the Room of Requirement, like last night, all to himself. He knew that some people had problems with alcohol, and could imagine the craving an alcoholic felt; had felt it too sometimes, when he'd been munching on his mother's biscuits when he was a child, and they'd been so good that the only way to get rid of the constant throbbing in the back of his throat was to continue eating and eating. He'd get sick afterwards, but it was worth it at that time.

Potter was his biscuit now, dough and flour hardened and wrapped up in delicious coating. He needed Potter, wanted him, felt the need for him go so far that even his fingers trembled at the thought of touching him again.

He was going to get Potter. They were meant to be together. Scorpius knew that, because he'd dreamt of them together in a house, happy and smiling and fucking each other however much they pleased. They were bound to be dysfunctional, Scorpius knew, should they actually get together, but it was a fortunate kind of dysfunction and Scorpius would happily greet this possibility.

Which was why he approached Potter at the Gryffindor table that evening and told him quietly to meet him in the Room of Requirement as soon as dinner was over. Scorpius wasn't sure Potter would come, but steeled himself and repeated, over and over and over, that he would.

Potter was in love with him. They were in love. They would be together.

"Let me in, Malfoy."

Scorpius, leaning back in the bed he'd conjured in the middle of the candle-lit, rose-scented room, holding a rose in his hand and peeling the petals off idly, started at the sound of Potter's gruff voice from behind the door and got to his feet immediately. He took a moment to relax, to keep from hyperventilating, and then pulled the door open, a wide smile on his face, nerves jumbled and flying high on adrenaline and excitement.

They dulled the impact of the first fist on his face.

Scorpius didn't even have the time to cry out. His hands flew to his nose, gripping it tightly and he almost fell back, knocked off balance, breath cut short from the blow.

Another hand reached for him, scratching, clawing, and settled around his throat, pulling him roughly against another body. A low, harsh voice hissed, "_Faggot_," in his ear and then more punches and kicks came at him, amidst loud shouts and sniggers and jeers, and once they were done, Scorpius was on the ground, beaten and battered, bleeding.

He curled into a ball instinctively, putting his arms protectively against his stomach, throbbing head resting on the ground. Every part of his body flared up in pain so sharp his throat stung when he tried to breathe in slowly. He felt dizzy, blood thrumming underneath his skin in time with the pounding of his head.

They were three people standing above him, and another one somewhere off to the right, farthest from them, and Scorpius just closed his eyes and listened to their words, to their loud laughs that grated his eardrums. Finally, one of the boys delivered a kick to his already broken arm and one interaction was heard, and then they were all gone.

All – all but one, and it took all his power to open his eyes and squint past the blood to see who it was.

James Potter stared back at him, face drained of any sort of colour, his lower lip swollen and the yellow bruise on his forehead seeming to pulse. His gaze darted to and fro, never really meeting Scorpius's, and even then all Scorpius could do was smile a quivering smile and breathe out a small, little laugh.

"Come here, Potter."

Potter seemed like that was the last thing he wanted, but he did so anyway, moving slowly towards him, looking for all the world like he was going to die.

He finally reached him and knelt beside him, hesitating before putting his hand on Scorpius's back. Scorpius blew out steadily, his nose throbbing in dull pain.

"I'm sorry," Potter murmured, his hand beginning to move up and down tentatively. "I'm sorry."

Scorpius didn't say anything; he lay there with his eyes screwed up tight, every part of his body aching, listening to the rustle of skin on cloth, relishing in the sensation. Potter's hand was soft against him, warm when he lifted his robes up slightly to touch him skin to skin, and his voice was thick and tight in his ear when he leaned towards him, mouth next to his ear, hands on his skin.

"I'm sorry, Malfoy, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

Even then, Scorpius ached to kiss him, to feel him, so he opened his eyes and reached out – his broken arm shaking violently at the exertion – and pushed his head until their faces were inches apart. Scorpius smiled at him and Potter just stared back in wonder, eyes shiny with unshed tears.

Scorpius leaned in to kiss him, and this time Potter didn't curse back at him or shout, and just stayed there, tense, lips salty with blood and tears. When Scorpius pulled back, Potter gave him another kiss, and another, and another, and then was pressed against him, their hips aligned, hands on Scorpius again, mouth on his neck, murmuring apology after apology.

Scorpius hated them, but he cherished every single whisper on his neck, and just took it all in. He knew he should be angry, mad, defeated, because he'd been beaten by Potter's best buddies, on his command possibly, but he was too tired and this all seemed like an impossibly real dream. He was being held by Potter. Potter was there, loving him in his own twisted little way, kissing his neck with sad, sad words that twisted Scorpius's heart, just a bit.

Poor boy.

"That was me, wasn't it?" Scorpius coughed out, laughing, lifting his head to try and face Potter. "The – the drawing. That was me, right?"

Potter didn't answer.

"I know it was," Scorpius said with a little sigh, dropping his head back on the cold ground. "I know it was. You love me, right, Potter?"

Potter said nothing.

He was gone.

When Scorpius woke up, what seemed to be hours later, the markers he gave Potter were there, along with the book, opened up to the page with Potter, upside down and beautiful, and Scorpius held it close to his chest.

He got what he wanted. He got James Potter in the end.

And he was all his.

Forever.


End file.
